Screams, a shot, a painful wail, the house above him shaking, sounds of breaking, the rumble of collapse, then quiet.
Brenden laid silent in the dark, choking on dust, debris, cracked ribs and whatever fumes leaked from the broken house around him.
Above all the pains he felt physically, it was the emotional rape that hurt the worst. Brenden cried as he thought through what that ass had done to him, not just now but ever since he came into his life. It wasn’t like Brenden’s father moved away; he was buried. When he needed someone to console with, his mother had to work to pay debts, and Rick, well Rick locked himself down here, in the basement. When he felt depressed, Rick seemed to always bring back his own problems to distract away his mother. When that didn’t work out, he waited for Brenden’s mom to leave and started piling blame, anger or chores onto him.
Just the shady manner Rick slipped into Brenden’s life stirred anger. He had worked with Brenden’s father, and when he died, he leaned under his mother’s mourning head, not waiting for the body to chill, and made himself the crutch. Sometimes Brenden wondered if his mother married him because she was afraid she couldn’t find another or was complacent to be unhappy rather then alone.
Once Rick told Brenden, during a fit, that his mother wouldn’t give him a child, because she said she couldn’t take well enough care of one child. Brenden felt terrible for his mother that day, but slightly proud to block any progeny that monster might have had.
Now his stepfather really was a monster, a giant with a murderous rage. It might have been better if he had he died under Rick’s hand, he thought. He now had to worry when the bastard could return to finish the job, assuming he didn’t die under the rubble of his father’s home.
Another hacking cough erupted from Brenden. There was a chemical reek in the basement. When the house collapsed, Brenden could hear some of his stepfathers locked cabinets tip and vials inside shatter.
Sitting up, he rubbed his bruised and dizzy head. He couldn’t see the walls or ceiling, but he knew that it hadn’t completely fallen down upon him. As he straightened his back, his shirt pulled uncomfortably on a few wounds. He struggled to straighten the shirt, loosen it somehow, but without light, he seemed only to make it tighter. Reaching above him, he tried to feel for any rogue boards that he might strike his head on if he stood. He needed to stand, the bunching of his pants, up into his crotch, was horribly irritating. Not feeling any obvious obstructions, he leaned forward and started to rise. His head struck wood immediately. His vision flashed white, and his ears heard splintering. Lying back down, he felt ahead of him, touching the stairs he had fallen down. His head had managed to get beneath the corner before he tried to stand.
Under Brenden’s hand he felt a sizable break in the wood. He swore he caused it, but didn’t understand how. Another wave of fumes filled his nostrils, and he knew he had to get above the chemical cloud or chance choking to death on them, not to mention his pants seemed to be in the act of castrating him and his shirt slowly twisted tighter around his neck.
Moving back first then rising, Brenden stood. He felt the hair atop his head brush against the ceiling planks, and he thanked god the floor above him hadn’t fully fallen through, but rather had just got a little lower, maybe three or four feet. Brenden tried again to straighten his clothes. He loosened at the belt, his pants, but they seemed skin tight. Moving to his shirt, it too wouldn’t loosen. He pulled at the neck, but there was no room.
Brenden suddenly became aware that the ceiling was pressing harder upon the top his head. The building was collapsing, and no one was there to help him. Brenden began to stoop, but the ceiling persistently closed down upon him. The tightness in his pants made it hard to kneel. He worried for a moment about tearing likely his last pair of his pants. Feeling the ceiling closing in on him, he muttered to himself, “Fuck it,” and forced himself down onto his knees, tearing open the legs along the thigh and calf. He was back down along with the fumes again, coughing as the ceiling came down around him. Forced down into a crouch, he tried to get as low as his body would allow. He felt the pants continue to rip the lower he forced himself. His t-shirt even began to tear, as its flexible material was forced to its limits around Brenden’s bent and straining body. The beams began to press into his back, feeling like many small slats.
Forced to fight against the falling ceiling or be crushed, Brenden leaned his muscle back against the ceiling. To his utter surprise the wood splintered under his force. It began to bubble around his hands. With a sudden snap the ceiling broke around him, and he was blinded by the multitude of flashing of red and blue lights, followed by several spot lights pointed directly at his eyes.
Brenden squinted, raising his hands to block the light from his eyes. He heard people yelling, even some screams. Something was odd, the sounds were not coming from above him, and they were not sounds of surprised or happy people. They were barking, harassing sounds from somewhere around his chest level. The bunched shirt around his back suddenly split away, and beneath the plank surface, he became aware that his pants had completely tattered to pieces. He was naked in front of his whole neighborhood and whatever rescue personnel who were present.
He started to recognize commands. One obscured man, behind a light, yelled stand up. Brenden shook his head.
“I can’t. My clothes were torn off in the rubble. I’m… without cover… you know.”
“It’s Brenden!” A familiar voice yelled. It sounded like one of his friends, a neighbor’s kid. “It Brenden, not Rick, Don’t shoot!”
“Shoot?!” Brenden yelled surprised. His voice shook so loudly, he heard wood topple over.
There was a sudden explosion, seeming to come from feet away from Brenden. Something very small and hot struck Brenden’s chest, stinging like a plastic pellet from a child’s rifle, only smaller.
Brenden yelped and brushed away the stinging fleck of metal. His hand paused over a thick muscular bulge he didn’t remember having. Cupping his hand around his chest, he felt two mammoth plates that he quickly realized were his own pecs. Moving his hand down, his fingers slid over eight pairs of well defined abdominal muscles. Trailing down beneath into the rubble where his legs were still bent, he felt thick legs and between them a much more substantial piece, which was receiving a sudden rush of blood.
“What happened?” He asked with amazement. “What’s going on? Why am I so… different?” Reaching bellow, he cupped two heavy ovals, and his piece suddenly swelled, striking the basement’s ceiling with a harsh and noisy thud. Brenden began to blush, suddenly aware he was aroused in front of dozens of people.
One by one the lights focused on his eyes lowered. Figures began to come into focus, some new, many his neighbors, but all shocked and all much smaller then he was.
“Brenden,” his friend called, “You got big!”